How am I hitched To the coal-wagon of my mourning! Loathsome as a spider Time creeps over me. My hair falls out, My head greys, like a field Where the last reaper Swings his sickle. Sleep darkens about my limbs. Already in dreams I have died, Grass sprang out of my skull, My head was of black earth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PRIESTHOOD by GEORGE HERBERT SLEEP AT SEA by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI LYNCHED NEGRO by MAXWELL BODENHEIM THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES SONNETS FOR NEW YORK CITY: 1. NEW YORK AT SUNRISE by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH NOTRE DAME DE ROUEN by WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER |